


Lost it to Trying

by Sola_Ircadia



Category: Tekken
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Outsider, Sexual Content, in the more innocent sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sola_Ircadia/pseuds/Sola_Ircadia
Summary: They're not very subtle.





	Lost it to Trying

**Author's Note:**

> Evidently, my version of living on the edge is not updating the correct stories and never having anything beta-read before I post it
> 
> Anyway, this is set during T3 and T4, just in case it wasn't clear. Thank you for reading and have a wonderful day!

 

Forest stumbles across them by accident, and he’s regretted not being more careful every day since then.

 

It’s not like he’d been trying to find them or anything. He’d just been minding his own business, going about his day like he would’ve been _regardless_ of his awareness. It was supposed to be no different. Everyone uses the tournament’s complimentary training spaces, after all – not just him. And not just them, either, although they tended to use it an awful lot. Now he knows why.

 

He’s minding his own fucking business, hoping to get in a warm-up before his match today, but is stopped by an odd sound emanating from one of the training rooms. He doesn’t even think about what he might find if he investigated. How bad could it possibly be?

 

Still worse than what he actually finds, probably, but not by much.

 

They can’t see him, but he can see them, and any thought he might’ve had dies abruptly in his head. _Oh_. He kind of wants to scream, but he doesn’t know if he can manage it. It’ll probably come out as a squeak or something, which definitely won’t convey the sense of pure shock and terror that he’s feeling right now. He doesn’t even know how he’s managing to stand out of sight and out of the way, let alone upright and on his own two feet still. Is there any blood left in his head? Hell if he knows.

 

Jin Kazama, of all people, has that red-haired Taekwondo fighter – Hwoarang, he’s pretty sure? – pinned up against the wall, and it doesn’t look like they’re fighting. It also doesn’t look like they’re talking. It doesn’t even look like they’re threatening each other or posturing or anything, which are also both things that they’ve done before, although never _quite_ this unreasonably close together. If anything, it kind of looks like they’re...kissing.

 

Actually, upon further (accidental) examination, Forest is pretty damn sure that they’re making out.

 

The urge to scream (or squeak) returns, but his body isn’t responding to his brain – or his brain to his body – at all. His eyes see everything, Jin’s fingers in Hwoarang’s hair, the way their bodies are pressing so closely together, the way Hwoarang holds onto Jin’s shoulders like the other fighter is the only thing keeping him on his feet, but he doesn’t really _see_ it. He hears it all, Hwoarang’s muffled cries, the deep sound of Jin moaning when he pulls away, soft whispers of words passing between them that he can’t catch, but he doesn’t really _hear_ it. He’s way too far into panic mode to be registering any of this properly. A fucking meteor could blow this place to hell and he wouldn’t even notice at this rate.

 

They shift, Hwoarang gasps, and _holy shit Jin’s hand is down Hwoarang’s pants_. His moans get louder and Jin silences them once again, capturing the other fighter’s mouth with his own even as he edges closer and picks up the pace and yeah, Forest needs to get the _hell_ out of here _right the fuck now_ before he witnesses something that he _really_ doesn’t need to know the particulars about.

 

Truly, it’s a wonder he doesn’t lose his match that day.

 

* * *

 

A hop, skip, and plenty of quick little steps take Xiaoyu to the men’s locker room, where she knows that Jin will be right now. He just finished his latest match, winning with a graceful ease signature to him and no one else, so of course he would be down here. At least, he’d better be – Jin is a hard man to catch, and nothing short of ambushing him will guarantee a moment or two spent in his company at this point. If she misses him now, these little cakes she made will go to waste, and she won’t even get to congratulate him until later. She needs to take this chance while she can!

 

She pauses just outside the door, taking an extra second or two to catch her breath, before peering in through the window. Xiaoyu frowns. It looks empty! She can’t see Jin anywhere, and even his things don’t seem to be – wait, wait, there it is! His duffel bag sits on the bench, unzipped and half-packed. She feels a smile spreading across her face even as she opens the door, doing her best to be as quiet as possible. No use in startling him if he was changing or something.

 

She’s about to call his name and warn him of her presence when she hears an unfamiliar sound coming from the shower space of the locker room. She frowns. Could that be Jin? It didn’t sound like him. If anything, it sounded more like –

 

“Hwoarang,” a voice moans, soft and deep, and Xiaoyu freezes. Now _that’s_ Jin. And he’s with Hwoarang? What are they doing back there? If they’re fighting again, she is going to –

 

Another moan – not Jin, this time – makes her reconsider the need to even ask that question. She’s seen enough awkwardly-timed movies to know what must be happening back there (or at least have an idea of what’s happening) and should know better than to stick around. Whatever it is, fight or otherwise, is their business.

 

...that’s what she tells herself as she edges forward, silent on soft-soled shoes, creeping towards the sounds with all the stealth of a professional assassin. She doesn’t _need_ to know what’s going on, but she sure as hell wants to. For some reason. She’s just curious, is all. Back against the wall, peering at the bathroom mirror from the corner of the room – honestly, there is a design flaw in having the mirror pointing at the showers, but she’s not an architect – and she sees a flash of red.

 

Bag of sweets in one hand, mouth covered by the other, she shuffles just a bit closer. _Oh my_. She can see them in the mirror now, although they are partially hidden by the wall and the shower curtain. It’s a decent spot for not being too obvious, snooping sixteen year old girls notwithstanding.

 

Hwoarang has Jin pushed up against the tiled wall, both hands in his hair as he kisses him hungrily, the soft, wet sounds audible even from a distance. Jin’s hands are on Hwoarang’s waist, tracing the exposed skin there, and what are they...? Oh. Xiaoyu flushes, making some sort of instinctive connection regarding the way that their hips are grinding together. _Oh_.

 

The well-trained muscles in Hwoarang’s back flex every time he moves, and he abandons Jin’s mouth to focus on his throat, his actions there making Jin moan again. His eyes are shut, and Xiaoyu watches his face in the mirror, fascinated. He’s always been beautiful, but she’s never seen him so expressive before, nor so free with his hands. Jin touches Hwoarang all over, fingers leaving their path against his waist to trail up his back before tangling in his long, auburn hair. His lips curl into a small smile and he huffs a laugh – did Hwoarang say something? – before murmuring quietly in response, the rumbling words inaudible. She wishes she could hear what they’re saying, but getting any closer would reveal her position. She’ll have to settle for this.

 

Now they’re kissing again, fiercely and longingly, and Hwoarang is undoing the tie on Jin’s gi pants. Xiaoyu swallows. Is he really going to...? Yes, yes he is, and Jin gasps loudly when the redhead’s fingers push below his waistband. _Oh, my_. His head tips back against the wall and he moans, the sound only seeming to spur Hwoarang forward in his actions. He presses Jin more firmly against the tile, one arm around his waist, pausing for a moment to let Jin adjust his grip on his shoulders before setting a pace that has him crying out Hwoarang’s name into the relative silence of the room. Hwoarang leans in, whispering things to him again, and Jin pants desperately, burying his face in his rival’s neck.

 

It’s a lot more than lust, Xiaoyu suddenly realizes. All Hwoarang has done since she’s known him is bother Jin, and all Jin has done since they’ve gotten here is fend the Korean off, but this...? She’s beginning to wonder if she’s been missing something very important all this time. The proximity, the sensitivity, the way that they’re holding onto each other so tightly – there is affection here, an innocent wish for closeness and intimacy underscored by a powerful, matured sense of longing and desire. They want each other, and it doesn’t matter how, they would be satisfied with any of it. They are fond of each other. They genuinely like each other.

 

_Could they – ?_

 

“Come on, baby,” she hears Hwoarang murmur, louder than before, and his voice is so deep that Xiaoyu flushes at the sound of it. “I’ve gotcha.”

 

“Hwoarang,” Jin gasps, and Xiaoyu almost squeaks at how delightfully desperate he sounds. “Hwoarang, I – ”

 

“I know, baby, I know.”

 

It’s the term of endearment that does it, something about the softness in Hwoarang’s tone when he says it that makes her realize that she really shouldn’t be here. This is something between them, something private and special and for their eyes only. Even as Jin’s moans get louder, almost like music, she knows that it’s not for her to hear. Hwoarang’s name mixed in the litany is proof enough of that.

 

Her best option is quite simple: make a quick exit and don’t look back. She considers leaving the little bag of cakes with Jin’s things, then decides against it. She can try again later, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Steve doesn’t know which divinity he pissed off recently, but whoever they are, they’re taking their anger out on him in a very petty way. Here he is, at a fighting tourney, doing what he can to lay low and play it smart, and all the universe can seem to think about is tormenting him in increasingly inane and outlandish ways. Forget the short-lived training sessions and the off-the-walls matches, _this_ is some next-level shit.

 

The blond groans aloud, burying his head under the hotel pillow in the vain hopes that muffling the sounds will make them go away in their entirety. (He’s wrong, of course.) He’s already tried moving the bed (it’s heavy as fuck) and sleeping on the floor (he woke up sore with a stiff neck and it didn’t really help, anyway) – all that’s really left is to try sleeping in the bathtub, but Steve Fox is a big dude and he doubts that it would be worth it.

 

He could say something, but...well. It’s not his business. He’ll just suffer instead.

 

...God, but is he getting murdered in there? Steve swears that he’s never heard someone be so loud during sex in his entire life. He has no illusions as to what’s happening over there – seriously, if the headboard-banging-against-the-wall shtick hadn’t tipped him off, the unrestrained moaning definitely would’ve – but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry. Or wonder. Or have a hard time looking his neighbor in the eyes when he meets him in the training room.

 

He doesn’t know who Hwoarang keeps bringing to his room every night, but Steve just might have to kill them. Is it too much to ask for a decent night’s sleep in this place?

 

Evidently, the answer is yes, and after spending even more wasted hours (fucking _hours_ ) listening to Hwoarang scream a stranger’s indiscernible name, Steve resolves to say something. And he fucking plans on it, too. He wakes up that following day with a mission in mind, heading for the training rooms as soon as he’s able. If he doesn’t find Hwoarang there right away, all he’ll really have to do is wait; no one can keep that guy away from a punching bag for very long.

 

Well. There is one thing that can distract Hwoarang from training, and funnily enough, it’s the very reason that he’s training so damn hard. Steve hasn’t seen much of Jin Kazama since the tournament started, but he’s seen plenty of Hwoarang, and once you get him going, he never stops. Stupid Kazama this, rivalry that, something about hustling and winning streaks and promises that he intends on keeping. _You should’ve been here for the third tournament_ , he says, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. _Things were different then_. (And that they were, as far as Steve can figure out.) He listens, not only because he’s polite, but also because he can’t help but be interested, in a way. Jin is mysterious, and Hwoarang is...well.

 

He’s not mysterious in the slightest, and Steve knows that there’s a lot more to his ranting than meets the eye. Ear. Whatever.

 

But Hwoarang, to his infinite surprise, does not appear. It’s almost dinnertime, and Steve still hasn’t seen him even though he’s been loitering about the training rooms all day. Not that he’s wasted his time, mind you – a good, solid bout of training is hard to come by – but still. Really? What are the odds? Something really is after him.

 

He packs it up and heads out, intending on getting some food and maybe watching one of the evening matches before calling it a day, when a strange noise catches his attention. Steve freezes. He knows that sound.

 

Despite that, he can’t quite place where it came from. Being outside adds a lot of white noise to his perception, not to mention the gardens are right next to the training building, so who knows if he _actually_ heard that and maybe he’s just –

 

The gardens.

 

He’s going crazy. Like a man possessed, light steps, silent and skilled, creeping towards the thicket of trees with nothing more in mind than an insane desire for a fucking answer. There’s a decorative wall back there, somewhere – he’d watched Hwoarang vault over it just yesterday, actually, taking off after losing track of time and realizing he was going to miss one of Jin’s matches – and for some reason Steve draws closer to it, wondering. It must be the lack of sleep. He wouldn’t be doing this if Hwoarang could go a single night without needing a damn fuckbuddy.

 

Because there, several paces and a few well-placed trees away, is Hwoarang. Pinned up against the wall by none other than Jin Kazama. And they are not fighting.

 

As a matter of fact, they are most _definitely_ making out.

 

He gapes, unable to help himself, even as everything comes crashing down upon him with startling clarity. As much as it doesn’t make any sense, it does, it fucking _does_ , and he knows he would’ve guessed it sooner if he’d actually been able to get a good reading on the stoic Japanese man. As it is, he’d been totally in the dark, and never could’ve imagined Hwoarang’s nightly visitor to be _Jin fucking Kazama_.

 

_(Jin, whom Hwoarang cannot seem to stop thinking about. Jin, the only person that Hwoarang will really talk about with any sort of interest. Jin, the seeming reason for the frustrated sadness in the redhead’s eyes whenever he trains alone in silent thought, unaware that Steve is studying him.)_

 

But it’s so obvious that they’ve done this before. They’re so close, and holding onto each other for the sole purpose of being closer, it seems. The nips that Jin places against Hwoarang’s throat are practiced, perfect; the redhead’s body arches and Jin _groans_ , a deep, rumbling sound that makes Steve’s eyes widen. It’s the sound that brings him back to himself, and he withdraws, focusing on staying silent in order to best ignore the scene unfolding behind him.

 

Steve decides that, whatever this is, it is _absolutely_ not his business.

 

* * *

 

“This is the last time,” Jin mutters, and Hwoarang lets out a mocking, breathless laugh.

 

“Sure.” He flicks his wrist harder, and Jin hisses. “I’ll see you in my bed tonight, then.”

 

Jin opts to silence him with his mouth, expertly drowning out any embarrassing noises he might make himself with Hwoarang’s tongue. He grips the other by the waist, pulling him in tighter as he quickens the pace of his strokes, swallowing Hwoarang’s whimpering cries. He’s close, then. He knows well enough now the sounds that he makes, the way that he starts trembling and mewling and –

 

Jin grits his teeth, both out of frustration over his own weakness and the impending rush of release building up within him. He pins Hwoarang harder against the wall, pushing for the home stretch; Hwoarang grinds up into him with equal force, his touch becoming harsher as he catches onto the hitch in Jin’s breathing. They’re both intimate enough with each other now to know the others’ tells by heart. Jin tries not to think about that too much.

 

“Fuck,” Hwoarang hisses, gasping for air as he breaks away from the kiss. Jin follows him, claiming his mouth again before he has a chance to say anything more, plunging his tongue back in to meet his rival’s. He can’t let him speak. Hwoarang is dangerous when he talks, and besides, when they’re kissing, he can’t get a good look at him, can’t see the longing in his eyes that matches his own –

 

Hwoarang whimpers one last time and then he’s coming hard into Jin’s hand, his whole body shuddering. Jin can _feel_ him gasping his name against his lips. _Don’t._ He shuts his eyes, forehead falling against Hwoarang’s shoulder as the tremors begin to overtake him, his rival’s fingers still tight around his cock. _Don’t do it_. Gods, but he should know better by now.

 

_(Should know better than to come to Hwoarang’s room at night, every night, should know better than to respond to the challenge glowing in those familiar, searching eyes. He shouldn’t be there, holding him so tightly, kissing him so desperately, touching him so intimately – he shouldn’t be so fucking close, his brilliant rival’s name on his lips, watching intently as Hwoarang comes undone beneath him. He shouldn’t want to hear his name in Hwoarang’s voice, those helpless cries and soft murmurs that have haunted his dreams for years now. He shouldn’t leave wanting more, shouldn’t leave with an unbearable longing in his chest that he can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how many times he tries to. He should know better than to want Hwoarang like this. He should know better than to want him at all.)_

 

Jin moans softly as he comes, and the sound is shaped closely enough to Hwoarang’s name that he would curse himself if had the energy for it.

 

_This is the last time._

 

He knows that it won’t be, and Hwoarang knows, too. They’re not very subtle.

 


End file.
